


Green Hell

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Endurance - Freeform, Exhaustion, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:46:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A jungle trek, an exhausted Alex, and a glimpse of hope. </p><p>(Gen/pre-slash. First posted on Livejournal.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Hell

His hands were shaking. 

Alex stared blankly into the ripples trembling across the surface of his coffee, then set it down hurriedly on his knee, clasping one wrist with the other before anyone noticed. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - appear weak in front of the rest.

Muscles were jumping in his arms too, the consequence of hours of exhausting progress through the jungle. His spasming fingers felt like they still were curled round the handle of the machete. He knew when he was finally allowed to drop into a shattered sleep, he would dream of the swish-fall of vegetation all night.

Days of it behind him. Days of it still to come. 

It had become a little easier once he'd copied Yassen's example and started using both hands for alternate periods rather than just his right. Once he'd got his eye in and stopped almost hacking his foot off anyway.

His forearms were scratched all over from barbs and thorns as the jungle fought back against their passing, and one livid red line stretched across his cheek. Alex was glad he was hundreds of miles from a mirror; he didn’t want to see how close it had come to taking his eye.

A soft tread behind him, and a hand brushed something from his shoulder, something that disappeared beneath Yassen's boot with a faint crunch. Alex raised his eyes and the Russian shook his head slightly. 

"You don't want to know," he muttered with a faint smile, and moved on towards the campfire, exchanging quiet words with the others. Hard men all, that mostly looked upon Alex with scorn. 

He knew they thought Yassen was fucking him. 

He hadn't been the only one to notice the fact he was given a slightly larger water ration each morning, or that Yassen ensured he got his fair share of food when the other men pushed in front.

His instinct had been at first to refuse. But Yassen had just fixed him with cold eyes that told him not to be stupid, so he endured the taunts and the faint sense of guilt and was secretly grateful, which made the shame burn all the hotter.

He didn’t bother to deny the jeered accusations. Let them think what they liked. Neither, though, did Yassen and he sometimes wondered why. Supposed it was as convenient a fiction as any. 

After all, he wasn't entirely certain himself what made him deserve the preferential treatment, other than the fact Yassen needed him alive at their destination.

That had to be all it was. 

He let his head droop until his forehead was resting on the back of his hand, gathering himself. They had a whole afternoon to get through yet, and the thought filled him with weary despair. 

Alex lifted a hand to wipe away tickling flies from the back of his neck, feasting on the salt in his sweat. Dimly heard Yassen give the order to move on, found it was all he could do to raise his head. 

There was no strength left in his legs, he'd just have to sit here until the jungle absorbed him. Chances were from what he'd seen, that'd probably only take a couple of hours.

He watched numbly as the men kicked dirt over the fire, swung packs onto broad shoulders, laughing and cursing. How the hell were they not as tired as he was?

Alex realised someone was standing in front of him, blocking his view. 

"Up," Yassen ordered, implacable.

"Can't." Barely a breath, barely aloud. 

"Up. Now. On your feet." The words were hard, unsympathetic, but to Alex's surprise Yassen was offering his hand. Alex took it almost as a reflex, and was hauled swiftly upright. 

As they set off again into the curtain of green, Alex summoned the memory of warm, calloused fingers in his, and found the strength to curl his blistered palm around the machete once more. 

\--


End file.
